


She Kept Herself Safe

by rougefox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Don't say I didn't warn you, F/M, Horror, Late Halloween Fic, Not for the faint of heart, Psychological Horror, Some out of character stuff, Sort of Gross, Warging, Weird, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8454499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougefox/pseuds/rougefox
Summary: He said he could keep her safe. He lied.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on Halloween as I watched the Descent and hid from Trick or Treaters.
> 
> I posted it, but then got cold feet because I realized how weird/gross it is and took it down. 
> 
> However, I have been encouraged to repost it. 
> 
> I would like thank SnowWhiteKnight for being my cheerleader :)
> 
> There is no beta- I take full responsibility for all errors.

He had promised her the night the Blackwater burned that he could keep her safe, that they were all scared of him. He lied.

 

  
  
He should have remembered that there were a handful of men in the Seven Kingdoms who did not shy away from the idea of facing him in combat and they were under the control of Tywin Lannister. He should have realized that Tywin would want to retrieve his stolen piece in the game of thrones then hold him accountable for taking something that wasn’t his.

 

  
  
When Sandor Clegane had taken Sansa Stark away from Kingslanding he should have rode west, then north, taking her to Riverrun, to her Kingly brother. Instead he selfishly rode up the eastern coast; his destination had been Maidenpool’s harbor to board a boat to take him somewhere in Essos with his little bird.

 

  
But he learned too late that his dream of running away with his Northern Princess was as stupid and improbable as one of her songs.

 

 

Florian and Jonquil had been her favorite, some fool and his cunt he had called it.

 

  
  
Now sitting tied against a tree with Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane bitterly thought about how he had been a bigger fool than could be found in any castle, any village, or any song.

  
**

 

  
Since leaving Kingslanding Sansa had suffered repeated indignities. The first was when Sandor had looted an abandoned village and brought back boy’s cloths for her to wear. They were filthy and probably full of nits and lice but she was too noticeable in her fine dress adorned with silk ribbons and Myrish lace. Sansa to her credit had attempted to keep her disgust off her face as she took the breeches and loose tunic behind a tree to change. When she reemerged, she had sadly handed her dress to Sandor to stuff in Stranger’s saddle bag.

 

  
"It will only be for a little while," he had promised.

 

  
As soon as they were in Essos he had planned to spend his tourney winnings to set her up in a grand villa as she deserved. He would sell his skills and buy her gowns finer than any she had in Kingslanding. He could lock her in a great home with everything she could ever want. She would never want for anything and she would be all his.

 

  
Before they could continue on the road though, he had to cut her hair. Boys did simply not have waist length hair that looked like flame when it caught the light. She cried as he took a dagger to her tresses and clenched the locks that landed in her lap to her breast.

 

  
"My mother loves my hair," she whispered to him. "She would send my maid away and brush it for me before bed."

 

  
  
Sandor had hated cutting her hair. Sometimes when he watched her as he stood behind the blond bastard he wondered what it would be like to bury his face in her long tresses; to feel the silkiness against the good side of his face. He often thought late at night about wrapping it around his hands as she lay under him writhing like a warm snake, screaming his name in her ecstasy.

 

"It will grow back," was all the comfort he gave her before telling her to smear it with ash from the burned out camp fire to dull the color.

***

  
All of this had been for naught though. Tywin Lannister had ordered Gregor to find the stolen princess. So his brother had sent out search parties led by his men and stocked with sellswords in every direction. They were captured outside of Antlers as they stopped to get water from a nearby stream.

  
  
Sandor killed three of the sellswords before Polliver pulled Sansa out of a tree and threatened to cut her throat if he didn’t lay down his blade and come quietly.

 

They tied them back to back on a horse for the ride back to Harrenhal. Sandor found himself thankful they never caught Stranger.

 

 

At least something he cared about wouldn’t be torn apart by his brother.

 

**

He denied taking the princess from Kingslanding and surprisingly, they believed it. At first they had thought that Sansa was his squire and taunted him about using her to warm his bed since no woman would ever open her legs for him willingly. She smartly kept her mouth shut as to not give herself away.  


 

The illusion didn’t last long. When they stopped to camp for the night, their captors let them piss and immediately noticed Sansa’s lack of assumed equipment.  


 

Sandor was forced to give her up when the sellswords began circling around her like hungry sharks at this new development.  


 

His screams had sent birds into flight from the trees; “She’s Sansa fucking Stark you fucking cunts! If you lay a hand on her Tywin Lannister will skin you alive!”  


 

This kept the sellswords at bay for a while and their nights were spent tied side by side against a tree.

 

  
**

 

When the camp was quiet in the dead of the night, Sandor begged her for forgiveness. The only conciliation he could give her is that she wouldn't be molested and Gregor will send her back to Kingslanding as soon as they arrive at Harrenhal.  


 

The first night Sansa wouldn’t speak to him. The same with the next. He could feel her shaking through their shared restraints as she cried herself to sleep and he no longer cared that Gregor was going to kill him when they got to Harrenhal. He deserved anything his brother did to him. He had failed her and deserved to go to all of the seven hells.

 

  
***

 

  
They spent their days dozing against each other as they rode tied back to back on a horse that was not used to carrying so much weight.

 

 

  
***

On the third night Sansa started whispering to him.

 

“I dreamt I was flying last night,” she told him. “I usually dream of my father’s death or of the Kingsguard beating me while Joffrey looks on.”

  
When he tried to apologize for not helping her then, she shushed him and continued.

  
  
“In my dream I am in a dark cave, then I shoot out like an arrow let loose toward the sky. It’s always night in my dream. I can see the stars and the moon is large, so large. I can breathe the cool air and I fly above the clouds. It’s so peaceful up there, flying over the land so high even Harrenhal looks like a child’s toy.”

  
  
“That sounds lovely little bird,” he whispered back. His dreams were dominated by watching Gregor dismember her in front of him.  


**  
  
  
They were a couple of days from Harrenhal when the sellswords grew restless. They were running low on wine and without any small folk to terrorize, boredom was beginning to plague their nights.

 

  
Inevitably their eyes turned to Sansa.

 

 

Even in her filthy boy's clothes and dulled hair she was still a woman and an unspoiled one at that.

 

 

Their whispered conversations discussing the acts they would like to see her perform reached Sandor causing his blood to boil. In the end they decided that the wrath of Lord Tywin was not worth spoiling Winterfell’s daughter.

 

 

Then one day Polliver had an idea;  


 

“She’s been traveling with the pup for over a moon. He could have done anything to her! “  


 

“What if she squeals? “asked a sellsword.

 

  
“If we cut out her tongue she won’t.”

 

 

“Won’t that anger Lord Tywin?”

 

 

“I doubt he cares if she can talk. As long as she can still open her legs is all he cares about. Ser Gregor will just send him his brother’s head, tell him it was all his doing. And if she’s too spoiled, maybe Lord Tywin will let us keep her.”  


 

Sansa was sitting an arm’s length away from him, but Sandor could feel her trembling through the rope that bound them to the tree. Her shaking became more violent as the sellswords and Polliver traded ideas of what to do with her. Sandor began to worry she was having a fit like the Arryn whelp used to. Then suddenly she went slack, collapsing against the trunk. Sandor hoped she didn’t wake up till morning so she wouldn't remember anything that was going to happen to her.  


 

Polliver and the sellswords finished talking then turned to Sansa; they all descend on her unconscious form like starving dogs.  


 

Sandor screamed at them, tried to kick their feet, anything to make him feel like he isn’t completely helpless to save her.  


 

They loosen the rope enough so they could pull her limp, lifeless body away but still hold him in place.  


 

Polliver said something to him about letting him have a turn after they were done, but Sandor couldn’t hear him over the rushing of blood in his ears.  


 

As they carried her away Sandor felt some relief that she was still in her faint. The last he saw of her, only her eyes were open, rolled back in her head with just the whites showing.

 

  
  
Sandor howled in rage, when they disappeared from his sight. He struggled in his bondage till the ropes cut into his wrists and burned his ankles. He threw his head against the tree’s trunk in helplessness before bursting into tears when he heard her clothing rip as the men argue who was going to go first. Sansa didn’t scream, she was stronger than he would ever be.

 

  
  
Suddenly a great gust of wind blew through the camp site. The force of the blast threw leaves and dirt so hard against his face it stung his good check and burned his eyes.

 

 

The campfire went out with a whoosh.

 

 

The clouds moved in front of the moon and the crickets and frogs ceased their calls.

 

 

The forest went as dark and silent as a tomb.

 

 

The men stopped their sport and mumbled about the light.

 

  
  
Sandor spit grit out of his mouth and strained to hear what they were saying. The air was so still it felt like every creature in creation was holding its breath.

 

  
  
He didn’t have to listen long because the next noise was the high pitch howl of an animal being torn apart. Sandor was no stranger to the noise; he had heard men wail as they laid dying and afraid with wounds on the battlefield.

 

 

  
The trees shook and swayed as a choir of maddingly high pitched keening pierced the night. Over the sound of screaming Sandor could hear the sickening crunch of bone as one by one the voices were silenced.

 

  
  
Sandor sat in the silence listening to the sound of his own breath and heartbeat. His throat was dry and his attempt to swallow was so loud he was surprised it didn’t echo.

 

 

Without warning the tree behind him lurched as something heavy landed in the branches above him. In the silence the scratching of the thing in the tree sounded louder than any war drum. The tree jerked and swayed as the thing made its way down to the ground; down to where he sat, bound and as helpless as a newborn babe.

 

  
The scratching stopped right above his head. His breath sounded like roaring in the silent night air. His heart felt like it was trying to rip itself out of his chest. Something hit the top of his head and a gentle warm trickling feeling starting at his scalp then made its way down his hair to drip onto his shoulder. Soon there was another, and then another till the tickling from the liquid slithering down his skin caused him to shake. A little bit dribbled onto his lip and he licked it out of reflex. He knew the taste instantly.

 

  
  
Blood.  


 

Whatever it was in the tree was dripping blood on him.

 

  
The fear he felt was like a living thing squirming in his mind. He started thrashing against his bonds helplessly. A scream crawled up his throat but Sandor gulped it down. He knew if he started he wouldn’t stop.

 

  
The tree bowed and bent behind him; the movement threw him hard against the ropes and knocked the wind out of his chest.

 

  
In front of his feet, Sandor could feel the air move as something landed in the dirt.

 

  
  
The sweet metallic smell of blood invaded his nostrils worse than the stench of any battle he had ever fought. He held his breath to keep from vomiting.

 

  
The clouds had finally moved away from the moon and a soft light filled the campsite.

 

  
Sandor could finally see it.

 

  
Not two meters away from the soles of his boots squatted a giant bat. Its wings were wider than Cersei’s wheel house, its head was larger than Stranger’s with giant pointed ears and large liquid black eyes. A huge horn like growth jutted up from its nose.

 

  
It looked at him with curiosity, blood dripped from its mouth into little puddles in the dirt.

 

  
Sandor could feel madness ripping a void in the back of his mind as the creature made a high pitch squeaking sound at him.

 

 

Without warning it scuttled towards him. It’s movement on the ground was unnatural and jerky making it seem even more unreal.

 

 

It didn’t stop till its face was mere inches from his own

 

  
  
He could smell the blood mixed with the stench of animal. The bile was rising in his throat.

 

 

The bat opened its mouth and Sandor could see pointy teeth as long as his middle finger in neat rows. He was close enough he could see the shreds of studded leather and cloth stuck in between the bat’s fangs. There was a bit of what looked like skin caught between its two front teeth.

 

  
It made a noise like nothing he had ever heard before. A pitch squeak that made his ears ring and stomach clinch.

 

  
Just when Sandor didn’t think he could handle anymore surprises from the creature, it flicked a long sticky tongue across his face smearing him with blood and foul smelling saliva.  


 

Sandor finally let go and began to laugh.  


 

“You are the ugliest fucking thing I have ever seen, you know that, you demon?”  


 

_I’ve gone mad._

 

  
  
It wasn’t unheard of for a soldier’s mind to snap after enough battles. Gods know he’s drank enough wine to rot his brain years ago.

 

  
  
A soft sweet sigh in his ear made him laugh anew. The breath was sweet and the voice sounded like it belonged to a woman.

 

  
  
  
Sandor wondered if he should just give in and pass out when a tug on his bindings snapped him awake. The rope holding him to the tree went slack and he felt small fingers pulling at the ropes around his wrists.

 

  
  
  
“Damnation!”  
  
  
Only one person in the world could make swearing sound so eloquent.

 

  
  
  
“Little bird?” he asked the darkness. The bat backed away from him.

 

  
  
  
“Hold on Sandor!” Sansa exclaimed into his ear. “I just need to get through… there!”

 

  
  
  
His hands were free and he immediately started rubbing the life back into his fingers.

 

  
  
  
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Sansa breathed in his ear. By his side he could see her slender arm and hand out stretched to the bat.

 

  
  
  
“Sure little bird,” Sandor said not taking his eyes off the creature.

 

  
  
  
“She helped me Sandor,” Sansa whispered close to his face. “She came when I needed her and killed those men.”

 

  
  
  
Sandor though he heard the unsaid; _Because you didn’t._

 

  
  
  
Sansa finally walked in front of him and offered her hand to pull him up. Without taking his eyes off the bat he let her help him.

 

  
  
  
It was not till he’d gained his feet did he realize that Sansa should not have been able to bare his weight. He’s twice her size, yet she hauled him up like he was child.

 

  
  
  
She didn’t seem to notice her sudden strength as she crouched in front of him rubbing the bat’s head like it was her beloved dead direwolf.

 

  
  
  
“Sansa?”

 

  
  
  
She suddenly stood up, put her hands on his shoulders and pulled his face to hers.

 

  
  
  
All thought ceased when she pressed her soft lips against his.

 

 

She did not balk at the blood or bat drool, instead licked his mouth with a small wet tongue. Taking the opportunity he wrapped his arms around her middle and kissed her hard. She opened her mouth and let his tongue dive in. Her body pressed against his and she let him run his hands all over her curves.

 

  
This was everything he had ever wanted; Sansa Stark in his arms, willing and loving.

 

  
  
He broke the embrace when he noticed he had wrapped her silky red hair around his hand like he always had wanted to.

 

  
  
  
Her silky red hair, that had been cut to her ears not even a moon ago.

 

 

It was now hanging to her waist.

 

  
  
  
“Sansa?” he ran his hand through her tresses. It was as soft as he always imagined, and in the moonlight he could see it shine like she had just spent an hour brushing it out.

 

  
  
  
Then he felt the fabric under his other hand; soft like velvet not course like the rough spun she had been wearing when they dragged her away not even an hour ago.

 

  
  
  
Sandor looked down, she was wearing a dress. It was beautifully black, with yellow and white on the bodice.

 

  
  
  
Sansa noticed his shock and reached up to press her hands to both sides of his face.

 

  
  
  
“Sandor,” she whispered as she stroked skin and scar. “It’s going to be fine. Truly, everything is as it should be.”

 

  
  
  
He shook his head and then heard the crickets and frogs resume singing in the night.

 

  
  
  
_She’s right; everything is as it should be._

  
  
  
“Come Sandor,” she commanded him.

 

  
  
  
For a mad moment he thought he heard two voices coming out of her mouth.

 

  
  
  
The void of madness in his mind opened a little bit when her eyes flashed amber instead of blue in the moonlight.

 

  
  
  
“Of course Sansa,” he replied. He had no choice (as if he ever did) and fell in step beside her as they left the campsite.

 

  
  
Sansa clasped his hand in hers, twining their fingers together.

 

  
  
  
“People always complement me on my Tully blues eyes Sandor,” she said in her double voice. “But they never talk about my hair. Do you know where I get my red hair from Sandor?”

 

  
“No Sansa.”

 

  
“It’s from my grandmother’s side. House Whent. Do you know where they got it from?”

 

  
  
“No Sansa.”

 

  
  
“The Lothsons, Sandor, I get my red hair from my great-great-great-grandmother who was a Lothson.”

 

  
  
Behind him, Sandor could hear the bat leap up from tree to tree till it broke through the tree tops and shot up into the sky.

 

  
  
“Let’s go to Harrenhal, Sandor,” Sansa said in one voice now. A deeper one that dripped with years Sansa Stark did not possess. “Let’s go get your brother.”

 

  
  
  
“Yes Sansa,” he replied because it was the only thing he could really say.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit is due; this story is influenced by the Second Son by CatONineTails. It is amazing and even if you hated this story, check out that one because it is super awesome!


End file.
